


eyes so blue i drown

by themetgayla



Category: Ocean's (Movies), Ocean’s 8 (2018)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, I love them so much, I'm Sorry, because i'm cruel that's why, emphasis on the hurt, why didn't i end it nicely?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 02:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15208703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themetgayla/pseuds/themetgayla
Summary: "What do I do?" Debbie's voice cracks as tears burn in he eyes, sliding down her flushed cheeks, dripping down onto her smooth neck. Tammy's breath catches in her throat; she always knows that to do, but this time she justdoesn't."Oh honey, I don't know." And that's the best Tammy can do.





	eyes so blue i drown

**Author's Note:**

> okay, so, i’ve barely been writing recently due to my shitty mental health, but it's mine and my girlfriend's two month anniversary today. it's not much, but it's longer than we thought we'd make it, and that means a lot. this one is for you, baby <3
> 
> (we always joke that i'm debbie and she's lou,, wow i'm soft.)

“Where's Lou?” Debbie pads through to the centre of the apartment, where Tammy is curled up on the couch, her fingers wrapped around the stem of a crystal wine glass (stolen, of course). Reruns of _Friends_ are playing on the flat-screen television, the group crowded on their usual couch at Central Perk, all smiling. How unrealistic.

Debbie's never really liked the show, if she's honest — life never turns out the way you fucking want it to. If it did, she'd be asleep in bed, wrapped in the warm embrace of Lou Miller. But the slim blonde is nowhere to be seen, and her bed is stone cold.

“Out,” Tammy mumbles, not taking her eyes off the screen lighting up the otherwise dark room. It's already 1am, and Debbie never remembers Lou staying out this late without her. But then again, that was _then_.

Five years, eight months and twelve days. That's how long she spent in that place, nursing bloody wounds, pushing mush around her plate, doing hundreds of push ups on the cold, dirty floor of solitary. She'd spent time planning, of course she had; it's what she does best. She can't recall the exact number of hours, days, months, _years,_ it took her to plan her current — and brilliant, if she may add — heist.

But in all that time she was locked away, enduring punch after punch, stabbing guards and women alike, things outside changed. Lou changed. Debbie doesn't know how Lou coped for those five years; all she knows is that the mysterious Australian welcomed her back with her signature smirk and a coy kiss to the cheek. Seemingly, nothing had changed, but Debbie can tell that something is different, she can  _feel it_. It pokes and nudges at her every time they speak, breath mingling as soft words are uttered between them; it reaches out from the darkness, begging Debbie to just _grasp_ at it every time they find themselves curled up in bed, long limbs tangled together loosely, fingers laced together tightly.

But they don't talk about it. Of course they don't.

It just isn't something they do. Debbie wants to, _god_ , she wants to just shake Lou and ask her what the hell is different between them, but she can't. The blonde isn't the type of person to talk about her feelings, and granted, neither is Debbie, but at least she _tries_  — for Lou, of course, only for her. Despite her efforts, the Australian never seems to open up in return, not about anything, not for anyone. So Debbie stays quiet. She doesn't ask. She doesn't push. She just accepts what she can get, and counts herself lucky for getting any part of Lou at all.

After all, she's the one who left for Claude Becker, that absolute  _scumbag_. She abandoned Lou, probably when the blonde needed her the most. It haunted Debbie in prison; it was the reason she endured some of those cruel beatings, starved herself, forced herself do sit up after sit up, dragged that tiny blade across her skin one too many times. After all, she deserves much worse. It haunts Debbie every night; it has her waking up in cold sweats, her body shaking as her chest heaves, her lungs gasping for air. It's worse than any crime she's ever committed. Her father left her, and she left Lou. _Goddammit, Debbie, you stupid fucking idiot. Of all the things you could have taken from that man, abandoning people had to be number one, didn't it?_

When Debbie snaps out of her haunting trance, Tammy is stood in front of her, a deep frown etched into her face, her eyes soft from years of motherhood, years of giving and giving and _giving_ , expecting nothing in return. Exhaling shakily, Debbie falls into the shorter woman's arms, pressing her nose into a warm shoulder as she gnaws on her bottom lip, desperately fighting back tears.

“I’m so tired, Tam,” she murmurs, as she fists the older woman’s woolly cardigan and squeezes it tightly, her knuckles turning a sickly shade of white.

“I know sweetie, I know.” Tammy hums softly, rubbing her hands up and down Debbie’s back soothingly, holding her as she rapidly blinks back the hot tears that threaten to fall. Tammy knows. Of course she knows. She’s a mother, for God’s sake. Mothers just _know_. She’s known for a long time. She knew before Debbie went to prison, she knew before the brunette even admitted her feelings for Lou. (When she did, the words were quietly spoken, floating into the night sky, almost overpowered by the waves crashing onto the rocks in front of them.)

“What do I do?” Debbie’s voice cracks as tears burn in her eyes, sliding down her flushed cheeks, dripping down onto her smooth neck. Tammy’s breath catches in her throat; she always knows what to do, but this time she just _doesn’t_.

“Oh honey, I don’t know.” And that’s the best Tammy can do.

* * *

When Lou walks in the next morning, wearing a loose pair of joggers Debbie's sure aren't hers, they're all sat around the kitchen island, munching on the fresh blueberry pancakes Debbie made. (She used to make them for Lou. She would wake up early, untangle herself expertly from Lou's tight embrace, and slip into the kitchen, already pulling out ingredients. The smell of cooking pancakes would wake the blonde up without fail, and soon enough, there'd be a messy-haired woman stumbling into the kitchen, her eyes bleary with sleep. God, how Debbie misses those days.)

“Where were you, blondie?” Nine Ball sips at her coffee — black, no sugar, of course — as she watches Lou stride into the apartment, not an ounce of shame on her face. It piques Debbie's interest, because she can only assume the blonde has been out fucking women that aren't her, and she would have thought the lanky woman would have at least a  _little_ bit of shame.

“None of your business,” Lou drawls as she drags her hand through her tangled hair, forcefully tugging at the knots. Debbie watches, her stomach churning, as she pulls up images of the woman she loves fucking someone else. She doesn't want to think about it, but  _god_ , how can she think of anything else? Lou probably hates her, for all she knows. “You made blueberry pancakes without me?” The blonde's voice is tinged with something Debbie thinks is hurt — she would have assumed that with confidence six years ago, but now she's starting to think she really doesn't know Lou as well as she once thought — and her eyes cloud over with hunger.

Lou saunters up to Debbie and snatches some pancake from her plate, maple syrup dripping down her hand as she shoves the whole thing into her mouth. Mesmerised, Debbie watches as the blonde's pink tongue darts out to lick the syrup from her plump lips, catching every last droplet before it disappears into her luscious mouth once again.

And then Lou's marching across to her room, not uttering another word as she closes the door quietly behind her.

“What's up with her?” Rose asks, pausing in her cutting of her neatly folded pancake — she's definitely the most refined of them all. Debbie flicks hr gaze around at her five partners, watching them all shrug as they continue to eat, genuinely clueless. But when the brunette stops to look at Tammy, she finds herself narrowing her eyes and looking just a little more closely. A light blush is blooming across the woman's chest, spreading up her neck and onto her cheeks, a tell-tale sign she's lying. Debbie's honestly not surprised, because Tammy  _always_ knows more than everyone else.

“Tammy, what do you know?”

Tammy's eyebrows shoot up into her hairline, and her eyes blow wide in a poor attempt to act surprised and prove her so-called innocence. “What? Nothing, I—”

“Don't lie to me,  _Tamsin_.” When Debbie fixes the older woman with a harsh glare, her dark eyes narrowing into dangerous slits, the other four mumble quietly under their breath, wondering just what their partner isn't telling them. Tammy flinches under the critical stares of the women around her, grimacing as Debbie wraps her slender fingers around her wrist and yanks her off her stool, dragging her across the room. “Spill, young lady.”

“Hey, I’m older than—”

Debbie clearly isn’t taking any shit, because her hands shoot to her hips, fingers gripping her hipbones painfully as she fights the urge to punch something,  _someone_. “I said  _spill_.”

Swallowing thickly, Tammy clears her throat and takes a hesitant step back, sliding her hands up from her sides to wrap around her stomach protectively. “Well, um, after you— after you left, Lou started spiralling. She was terrified of what would happen to you in there, so she tried to distract herself. She’d go missing for days, then come home drunk and high, smelling of someone else. It happened every night for four years. I tried to talk to her about it, but you know how she is. She doesn’t listen, not when she’s that far gone. Things changed about a year ago. She knew you’d be getting out soon, and things just kinda... well, fixed themselves. She was still out most nights, but she came home sober and smelling clean, so I took that as a victory. That’s all I know, I’m sorry.”

Debbie’s stunned into silence.

She never knew things were  _that bad,_ but then of  _course_ she didn’t; she didn’t ask, and Lou didn’t tell. But  _drugs_? Sure, Debbie knows Lou likes to drink — she ran her own vodka business, for fucks sake — but she’s never known her to be that stupid, that reckless.

The brunette is surprised she isn’t mad. Instead she just feels inexplicably guilty; this is all her fault. If she hadn’t been drawn away by Claude  _fucking_ Becker, she wouldn’t have spent five years, eight months and twelve days in prison, Lou wouldn’t have spiralled into depression, and they would probably be together, kissing languidly on the coast of California somewhere.

Instead, they’re stuck in hot, smelly New York, pulling off a heist. Debbie won’t lie; planning and pulling off the greatest heist of her career is beyond thrilling, but it’s not  _everything_. The others may think that being a con artist is the only important thing in her life, but she’d throw it all away for Lou in a heartbeat. She just wants her back. (That’s if she even had her to begin with.)

She has to fix things. She just  _has_ to. “I have to go.” And so Debbie goes.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed! please leave comments :)


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